


11:43

by ussgallifrey221b



Series: To Build a Home [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, F/M, Light Angst, Parenthood, dad!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 11:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey221b/pseuds/ussgallifrey221b
Summary: The most difficult conversations always seem to happen in the late hours of the night.





	11:43

It had been a full month of training and debriefing and planning at the compound. He threw himself into it because he had to. Sam was looking as ragged and exhausted as he felt by the end of it. There were murmurs in the intelligence community of a HYDRA ring operating under the radar in Ukraine. Kids were disappearing in Poltava and Kharkiv; too many, too clustered to be anything but HYDRA. They had agents already scoping the forested area around Rizunenkove - there were small energy signatures coming from the middle of the darkened woods, enough to send out alarm bells.

Take 'em when they're young, shape them and mold them into what you want. Shoot chemicals into their growing bodies before things have fully matured. Maybe it wasn't another Red Room or Soldier program, but it was something sickening that made his stomach turn each time he looked at his babies.

He’d gotten home later than he wanted, body and mind sore for prep work. Found you in the middle of the usual chaos of the living room. Gabe pulling your hair, Becca jumping up at the gate screaming _“Dad-dy!”_ Like that wasn’t enough to melt him down to nothing. He had swooped her up in his arms, spinning her upside down to blow raspberries on her belly. She had laughed and squealed “ _no-ooh! Dad-dyy! Stop! No-oooh!”_ Then she was babbling out her day, only able to pick up real words here and there: mommy, baby, blocks, tv, cookies, color. He nodded along, totally engrossed in her story.

While he showered off the sweat and worries, you made a fast dinner - crunched for time like always. Becca refused to eat the cooked carrots, Gabe smashed peas down into the seat of his high chair. He looked over the texts Sam sent him; more info for the mission. You cleaned the tomato sauce from the floor and their messy little faces. Setting them off into the living room while you cleared the table, got out the pajamas. He flicked through the pictures and maps while Gabe started to whimper at the gate. Ready for bed, you handed the little boy over for his goodnight hugs and kisses. Becca was still jumping on the couch, flopping down with excited giggles.

You took Gabe to nurse, while he corralled the hyper toddler who insisted on walking up the stairs on her own again. _“No, dad-dy. Becca walk!”_ It was scary how fast she was growing. He could still picture her, just a few days old, fitting perfectly in the crook of his arm. Bright blue eyes staring up in confused wonder. Now her eyes are a darker gray and she talks back a lot more. She settles against his chest as he finishes the routine with two books. Kisses. The growing collection of stuffed animals carefully arranged on her little bed. Turning on the sound machine with the starry light show on her ceiling, he says from the doorway, “Night, baby girl.”

He relaxes on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, finally having the chance to breathe. You emerge from the stairway a few minutes later. Turning on the baby monitor before moving into the kitchen for a real dinner of your own. With the _whir_ of the microwave from behind him, slow Motown music starts streaming from the TV speakers. He smirks, settling down into the cushions as you take a seat in the armchair. Your phone is balanced on your knee as you munch on a bowl of reheated pasta, finger swiping slowly as your eyes flick across the bright screen. He hasn’t asked you about work in a while. Still doing side work for SHIELD, but technically off the active duty roster now.

Bucky finds himself looking through pictures of the kids, as he does almost every night. It settles him, relaxes the kinks and troubling thoughts of his mind. Becca swaddled on the bed at the apartment, Alpine sniffing her head. An eight-month-old girl with mushy green food all over her face and hair. A one-year-old with chocolate cake smeared everywhere. A little girl popping out her hip with a pair of star-shaped sunglasses on. A tiny little boy, who was born far too early, in an isolette. Him holding the car seat with a thumbs up as they finally were able to take Gabe home. Becca laying on the floor next to her new brother.

Sometimes he couldn’t believe this was his life. After everything he had been through. He didn’t think he’d have this when he was in the middle of Europe shooting and being shot at by Nazis and HYDRA. Didn’t think this could exist when he was on the run and finally regaining his memories and sense of self. Certainly thought this was off the table when he came back from the “dead”. Life, it seemed, had a funny way of working when it came to him.

Feeling the heavy weight of sleep starting to pull at his eyes, he stands with a stretch. The brass clock by the front door is reading _11:43_. Shuffling towards the stairs with a lazy stride. His hand on the banister, he looks back to you, “Hey doll, think I’m gonna head up.”

“Yep.”

He freezes. That _tone_. His mind races with scenarios and dates and what the hell was he missing or forgetting? Fully turning, he sees you staring down at your phone but you aren’t moving or reading - just blankly staring.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Pointed and sharp. You’re revving up for something. A fight?

He doesn’t take the bait, walking back over to the couch, he sits on the edge of the cushion with his hands pressed together in a loose fist.

“ _Babe_.”

You pull back, rubbing a tired hand over your face, "It's nothing," you wave a noncommittal hand, "I'm just tired."

"Doll, talk to me."

You peer out from behind your hand. Something builds as you lean forward and rest your arms on your knees.

"Did you even notice," you hold your hand out, "That that was the first thing you've said to me all day?"

He balks. _No_ . Surely, in the morning he had - or when he got home - dinner? _No_. Not even then. He runs a hand over the rough stubble on his cheek, "I'm sorry, I've just been - "

"Yeah, I know," you say tightly. "Busy at work. Missions. _Saving the world_."

He doesn't like the sarcastic tone, the purposeful harshness of your voice. Clicking his tongue, he leans back against the gray couch cushions, let's his legs spread. His right hand drums on the armrest.

You dig your feet in; leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.

After a tense moment of unmoving bodies, he finally lifts his hand in question, "What exactly do you want me to say here?"

The first crack appears. Drawing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them, you murmur into yourself, "I don't know."

He leans against the armrest, "Clearly there's something going on and I can't fix it if you don't tell me what's _wrong_."

It takes a long terrible moment for another crack to appear. "I'm tired, Bucky." Your eyes are glistening. "I'm so damn tired. And," a deep breath, "alone."

He surges forward, speaking harsher than he had originally intended, "What the hell do you mean by that?"

He doesn't like the way you flinch at his volume. Guilt fills his mind as you move back against the chair and away from him.

"Nothing, Buck. Just drop it."

He huffs, "You brought it up. Just _talk_ to me."

Another long moment.

"You're never here."

He glances over at you, beautiful you and your crestfallen face. His heart breaks. The glass shatters.

"I'm here, all day, every day. My only companions are a two-year-old and nine-month-old. Some days, I don't even hear myself _talk_ ." You look up at him with a broken expression, "You ever have your socialization limited to your children? It's fucking _lonely_ . And then," you throw your hand his way, " _you_ come home and barely even spare me a second glance."

You sniffle, he wants to reach out. The vibranium _whirs_ as he balls his hand into a fist.

"It's not that I hate them or you or _this_ ," you gesture around the room. A life so very different from where you started in a studio apartment in the Heights. "I don't want this to be it. I feel like a single parent most days. You take her to bed and you make them laugh, but I do everything else."

Bucky extends his hand out and feels himself relax when you take it in your own.

"It's selfish as hell, I know it is. I just want you here, in their lives - in mine, again." Your smile is tight with nerves. "I know you're going through stuff that you can't disclose yet and you're getting ready for some big thing, but, God, Bucky. I just want my damn husband back."

He breathes you in. Steeling himself for the blow, the fatal word. He knew he couldn't have all this; the universe wasn't that kind. He was a fool to think he could live a normal life. You were ready to end it, find someone better - someone more stable.

But it doesn't come.

You just sniffle and wipe at your wet eyes.

"I'm sorry, I just - I've been holding that in too long. I never want to dump that on you because you just look so beat when you come home. They had me all wound up today and I just - " he squeezes your hand.

"You're right. I need to be here more," he says slowly, softly. Careful of his tone, never wanting you to pull away from him again.

There's still a bitter taste in the air.

"They miss you."

His stomach lurches.

"All day it's _daddy_ s and _da_ s. I'm not asking you to quit or anything, I just need… more? God, that sounds selfish." You pull from his hand, rubbing your face with a frustrated groan.

Bucky takes a moment to align his thoughts, playfully taps your knee, "It's really not. If it's important to you, then it's not."

You sigh, unfurling in the chair, mumbling, "There was a lot more screaming in my head."

He hums, "So, it's been on your mind for a while then." He gives you a smile.

You wipe the last of your tears away, "Yeah, probably too long." You look at him, "I'm sorry. I should've said it when it was first bugging me."

He grabs your hand, "Don't, I should've noticed it sooner. I just really need to do this next mission. And then, I don't know, I'll talk to Sam and figure something out. Something better."

" _Baby_."

"It needs to happen. I already missed eighty years, I'm not gonna miss my kids growing up."

You move from the couch to settle in his lap, head moving into the crook of his neck. He holds you tight, cards his fingers through your hair. Breathes in your scent. Let's the gentle music from the soundbar envelope you both. He wasn't gonna screw the one good thing in his life up. You and the kids were too damn important to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com).


End file.
